Pictures of a January Day

Mornings are very foggy and misty, sometimes straight through the day. We take Tim and Una out along the Caminos first thing -- otherwise their heads would explode. The ever-changing weather is forever providing new vistas on our same old hikes. We give each route a romantic-sounding name: the Promised Land (which you´ve heard of), St. Martin´s Triangle. Shepherd´s Creek, The Mushroom Walk, or the Sunflower Road. There´s also the Dovecotes, the Old Camino, or Way Back of Beyond.

Most of the walks have beautiful views. Tuscany and Provence have nothin´ on us, out here on the Meseta, even in winter. What boggles my mind is how many people skip over this part of Spain, rabid for mountains and beaches and cathedrals. I don´t worry too much though. It leaves more for me. And the dogs.

Tim, a Brittany Spaniel, is a bird dog. But Una, of uncertain parentage, is a terrier to her bones. She loves to excavate critters that dwell underground, and she´s initiating Tim into her obsession. And just over halfway to San Nicolas is a waste place full of rills and erosion, untillable and honeycombed with rabbit holes and critter tracks. This is Una´s favorite place in the world. We call it The Hare Field.

And here is one of my favorite pictures of Una, in the place she loves, doing what she does best. (she is the dirty white spot in the middle.)

I look at these wee images and despair of ever capturing the beauty and depth of the vista, fog notwithstanding. I guess that´s one of the many reasons people keep coming on down the camino: they can see it for themselves, and hopefully their knees don´t pain them so much they don´t notice the visual feast spread before them.

Then there´s the personal favorites: the progress pics! Here are some little ones, showing the downstairs of the house from outside and inside: the old salon with its new windows, and the progress on opening up a new doorway onto the back yard. It looks like archaeology, and it´s heavy going, even with a jackhammer!




Last but not least is the road back, a fond glimpse of Moratinos in the fog. The hump in the middle is the bodega hill. Our place is over to the left, beyond the trees, lost in the mists of morning. (sigh.)